"Will you bwing me some candy sometime, Mith Thara?" Doughboy asked. "Nobody brings me candy since Mithter Thyiner went away."
He stopped at the street and faced her. "When will Mithter Thyiner come back? Do you think he'll come back soon?"
"He's not coming back, honey," she said gently. "You know that." It had been a stroke, that January. Doughboy found him paralyzed on his mattress in their little Eldridge Street apartment, carried him through the streets weeping and begging for someone to help fix Mr. Shiner. He reached Jokertown Clinic before an ambulance with a heavy enough suspension to carry him could be found-nobody was going to try to separate him from his friend and guardian. By that time there was nothing even Dr. Tachyon could do.
Tears rolled from Doughboy's button eyes. "I mith him. I mith him tho."
She reached up. She wasn't tall enough. He bent over until she could wrap her arms around his neck.
"I know you do, honey," she said through her own tears. "Thank you for helping me. I'll bring you candy soon. I love you."
She kissed his cheek and walked quickly away without looking back.
11:00 A.M.
"Doctor!"
He studied the handsome dark face, the intense eyes actively scanning the lobby of the Marriott. Missing nothing. Tach bowed slightly. "Reverend."
"Deserting the floor of the convention?"
"Too chaotic."
"And disappointing?" suggested Jesse Jackson softly.
"It will be all right." Tach cocked his head speculatively. "And you, entering the stronghold of the enemy?"
"Gregg Hartmann is not my enemy."
"Ah, then you would have no objection to dropping out, and handing your delegates to the senator?"
Jackson laughed. "Doctor, you beat me to the punch. May we talk?" He indicated a sofa near one wall of the upper lobby. AP, Time, the Sun Times, and the Post began circling like barracuda. Straight Arrow, the Mormon ace from Utah, and Jackson's ace bodyguard, eyed them with an unblinking stare. The news of Tachyon's bombshell had spread quickly through the security forces. To Tachyon's knowledgeable eye the lobby seemed filled with discretely armed men.
"Wouldn't your suite be more private?" asked the Takisian dryly.
The flash of white teeth behind the mustache. "Private is not what I'm after. Let 'em speculate."
Tachyon debated. Decided that perhaps he and the Reverend Jackson could use one another. Some might speculate that Tachyon's support of Hartmann was wavering. Others might decide that Jackson was about to endorse Hartmann.
They settled onto the sofa. The tall black man, the diminutive alien with one leg tucked up beneath him.
"I want you to transfer your support to me," said Jackson bluntly.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. I'm the logical candidate to represent the jokers and aces. Together we can build a new world."
"I've been here forty-two years, Reverend, and I'm still waiting for that new world."
"You must not give in to cynicism, pessimism and despair, doctor. I hadn't expected that from you. You're a fighter-like me. " Tachyon didn't speak, and Jackson went on. "We have the same interests."
"Do we? I want to see my people protected. You want to be president."
"Help me become president, and then I can protect your people-a-ny people too." He frowned at the far wall. "Doctor, my foreparents came to America on slave ships. You came here in a spaceship, but we're in the same boat now. If Barnett becomes president we all suffer."
Tachyon shook his head more in confusion than negation. "I don't know. Gregg Hartmann has been our friend for twenty years. Why should I abandon him now?"
Help me. Kill me. Believe ine. He ruthlessly silenced the voices.
"Because he can't win. The senator is stalling. My people are reporting "Anyone-but- Hartmann" coalitions springing up all over the convention. If Gregg Hartmann can't stop Leo Barnett, Michael Dukakis certainly cannot."
"And you can?"
That self-confident grin that had galvanized a country. Like an arc light in its intensity. "Yes, I can." The smile faded, and he stared intently down at Tachyon. "I understand. I know abandonment, and people being mean to you, and saying you're nothing and nobody and can never be anything. I understand." His hand gripped the Takisian's shoulder.
Tachyon laid his hand over Jackson's. The same perfectly manicured nails, the same long slender fingers, but white on black. "Why is it when you and Barnett are reputed to serve the same god, your gods are so different?"
"A good question, Doctor. A very good question."
A Flying Ace glider sighed softly onto the tile at Tachyon's feet. He picked it up, stroked the molded white scarf with a forefinger. Jackson stared at the painted black face. His hand rose reflexively, and he drew his fingers down his cheek.
"Is your reluctance to back me entirely due to your loyalty, or is it because I'm black?"
Tach's head snapped up. "Burning Sky, no." He rose. "Believe me, Reverend, if I should ever decide to transfer my support from Gregg Hartmann you would be my first choice."
"You see, you have a charisma that is almost Takisian in its magnitude."
Jackson smiled. "And I take it that's a compliment?"
"Of the highest, Reverend, of the highest."
12:00 NOON
Gregg's room-service lunch sat untouched and cold on the coffee table of the suite. The Sony blared unheeded, and Tachyon sat like some damn wooden god on the couch.
Dangerously near the surface, Gregg could hear Puppetman's voice, mingled with Gimli's mocking laughter. It took all of his concentration not to lose himself in the subliminal chatter and say something that would reveal the conflict underneath.
Worst of all, Gregg was afraid that Puppetman might start speaking out loud again.
He paced restlessly in front of the windows. The entire time he could feel Tachyon's violet gaze on him: judging, appraising, cool. Gregg knew he was talking too much, but the motion and the monologue seemed to help keep Puppetman down.
"Barnett's up another hundred votes in the last ballot. One-hundred votes! We've gained what-twenty, twenty-five? Someone's got to start plugging the holes, Doctor. Hell, Charles said he'd talked to Gore's staff and was told Gore was planning to stay in. That was just last night, for chris'sakes. Barnett must have promised him the damn VP spot in return for the delegates. We've got half the press yapping about an `Anyone but Hartmann' movement, which means some of the on-the-fence delegates are going to start believing it. Barnett's already benefited from that garbage; Dukakis is back there smiling and shaking hands and waiting for the deadlock or a deal."
"I know all this, Senator," Tachyon said. There was a trace of impatience in his voice as he folded delicate hands on his lap.
"Then let's start doing something about it, damn it." The alien's cool haughtiness made Gregg's temper flare, and Puppetman rose with the irritation. No, idiot, he told the power. Not with him here, of all people. Please.
"I'm doing what I can," Tachyon said with clipped, precise words. "Browbeating those who support you isn't likely to get you anywhere, Senator. Especially not among your friends."
Gregg had no 'friends', no confidants-unless he counted Puppetman. He suspected Tachyon was the same. They called each other 'friend,' but it was mostly the residue of a political/social relationship that went back to the mid-sixties, when Gregg was a councilman and, later, mayor of New York. Gregg had performed favors for Tachyon, Tachyon had done the same for him. They both affected the politics of the liberal, the left. That far they were friends.
Tachyon was an ace. Gregg was afraid of aces, especially aces who could read minds. He knew that if Tachyon suspected the truth, the alien would not hesitate even one moment in revealing Gregg to the public.
So much for friendship. The thought made Gregg angrier yet.
"Then let's talk frankly. As friends," Gregg shot back. "The talk is all over the convention. You've been chasing Fleur van Renssaeler like some horny tee
nager. There are things here more important than your gonads, Doctor."
Gregg had never dared to speak to Tachyon that way before, not to a person with such a formidable mind power, not with Puppetman lurking in his head. Tachyon flushed a deep red. He rose to his feet with swift offended dignity. "Senator-" he began, but Gregg wheeled around with a chopping motion of his hand.
"No, Doctor. No." Gregg's anger was a glowing coal stuck in his chest. He wanted to use his fists on the prissily dressed man and see that fine, aristocratic nose flatten and splatter blood over the frillv satin shirt. Gregg gritted his teeth to keep from shouting in fury, from backhanding Tachyon's arrogant face. He ached to kick the man in his goddamn alien balls. It wasn't only Tachyon. It was the whole frigging day-the way his momentum had come to a wheezing halt on the convention floor, the eternal gnawing of Puppetman, the chortling of Gimli, Mackie's failures in New York and here since Chrysalis's death, Ellen: everything.
For just a moment, he wondered if Puppetman hadn't fanned the embers. The thought cooled hire. He grimaced. "I need you. You can pretend to be just a correspondent, but everyone knows better. You're a very, very visible supporter," he told Tachyon. "Everyone is extremely aware of your help with my campaign and our stand on the wild card issues. How does it look to the rest of the convention if the good doctor is obviously more concerned about getting laid than with making sure his candidate is nominated? Priorities, Doctor. Priorities."
Tachyon took a deep breath in through his nose, lifting his chin. "I don't need to be lectured like some errant child. Not by you, Senator, and especially not after I've spent the entire morning working for you. I find your accusations extremely distasteful."
"How distasteful will it be if Barnett is the next president, Doctor? He may pretend to be compassionate, but we all know what will happen. Do you think you'll still have funding for your clinic? Is what will happen to the jokers then worth a few minutes of grunting passion between a woman's legs?"
"Senator-" Tachyon uttered in outrage.
Gregg laughed, and the sound had a manic, cutting edge. He was sweating, his Brooks Brothers shirt ringed under the arms. "Doctor, I'm sorry. I apologize for offending you. I'm being blunt because I'm concerned. For me, yes, but also for the jokers. If we lose here, everyone affected by the wild card loses too. You understand that, I know."
Tachyon's lips were a thin, bloodless line. The angry flush lurked on his high cheekbones. "I understand better than anyone. Senator. It would do you good to remember that."
He spun on his toes in a graceful ballet turn and strode quickly to the door. Gregg thought that he'd stop and say more, but Tachyon simply walked out, nodding to Billy Ray stationed outside.
"Not even a fucking exit line," someone said in Gregg's voice.
Gregg wasn't sure who it was that spoke.
1:00 P.M.
A scuffle had broken out between a member of the New York delegation and an old woman from Florida. The two women had gone from shoves to the teeth-bared and hands in-claws stage. Hiram, blood suffusing his face, eyes almost popping with fury, flung chairs aside and rolled toward them. At the tiered wedding-cake podium Jim Wright was banging desperately and ineffectually. He gaped as the head broke clean off the gavel, and went sailing away into the crowd.
Tachyon, end-running through the milling throng, saw Hiram clench his fist, then an indescribable expression washed across the ace's face, leaving his expression as blank as a beach after a retreating wave. The plump manicured hand fell open and hung limply at his side.
The old bat was wearing a Barnett button and a large wooden cross. For an instant the Takisian hesitated; then, seeing the sharp toe of the Florida delegate's shoe lifting for a kick, he threw caution to the wind, and mind-controlled the both of them.
The press arrived. Security arrived. Fleur arrived.
"How dare you! Let her go!" Fleur dropped her arm protectively over the Barnett delegate's shoulder.
Tach noted that Hiram had a grip on the New York madam. He bowed jerkily. "With pleasure, just don't let her hit me."
"OH MY GOD! HE CRAWLED IN MY MIND! HE POLLUTED ME! ALIEN-"
"Madam, I make it a point never to pollute ladies of your age and situation with my precious alien fluids. Or my precious alien time."
"Bastard!" Fleur swept the sobbing woman away.
Hiram drew a hand across his brow. "Not tactful, Tachy."
"I'm not feeling very tactful. This is a disaster."
"This overcrowding makes fights inevitable," said Hiram. They settled into some empty chairs. Even Tach's knees were practically at his chin, so closely packed were the chairs. With a furtive glance for security or cameras the Takisian unlimbered his flask. Hiram gulped down an enormous swallow of brandy, choked, and suddenly Tach was shivering in distress as tears started rolling down Worchester's fat cheeks to mat in the heavy black beard. Sobs shook the massive body. Tachyon threw his arms around Hiram, patting, rocking, soothing. A string of nonsense words, endearments and reassurances poured from his lips. His own voice was jumping.
The emotional storm passed, and Tach offered his handkerchief. Hiram touched his brow, lips with tentative fingers. "Sorry. Sorry."
"It is quite all right. We are all under such strain."
"Tachyon, he has to win!"
The alien glanced from the wild, staring eyes to Hiram's hands closed vise-like around Tach's arms. The human's knuckles were turning white from the pressure. Tachyon lightly touched one hand, and said very softly and very gently. "Hiram, please, you're hurting me."
Worchester released him like a sprung trap. "Sorry. Sorry. Tachyon, we have to do whatever it takes, don't we? This is too important to leave to chance… to the good will of others. This is one time when the end may justify any means. Yes?"
Eyes closed Tachyon remembered Syria. Jokers being stoned to death in the streets before the bored or avid eyes of the nat passersby. South Africa. A time, not so very long ago, when it wasn't considered a crime to rape a joker woman just a lapse in taste.
"Yes, Hiram. Maybe you're right."
Patting the restaurateur absently on the shoulder Tach went in search of Charles Devaughn. What he was considering.., no, committed to doing… was insane. Certainly unfair. But when had a Takisian ever been concerned with fair play? No sense approaching committed Barnett delegates. That would only arouse suspicion, and the affects might not last. But the uncommitteds… if they had a change of heart after some fervent politicking from Devaughn and the ohso-persuasive and the oh-so-charismatic Dr. Tachyon… And Michael Dukakis? He could afford to lose a few. His only hope now was to be selected as the vice-presidential candidate…
It just seemed to sail down out of nowhere and into her hand. She barely had to move or will and she was holding it. She walked down Harris studying it: a plastic J. J. Flash Flying Ace glider, with holes carefully burned through its body and wings with a hot wire or rod. The face had been pen-blacked to oblivion with careful malice.
A couple of little black kids were wandering past in the other direction, staring at all the funny people. "What's you got there, lady?" asked the one in the Run DMC T-shirt.
She looked at the thing in her hand without comprehension. "A fucking Flying joker," she said.
The room wasn't as nice as the one he'd had at the Marriott. There were old wooden blinds instead of curtains; the bedsprings creaked, and the pastel paint was peeling around the baseboards. The motel was forty-five minutes from downtown and he'd had to slip the desk clerk a fifty to get the room. Still, Spector felt much more comfortable here. There was an all-night liquor store down the block and a burger place across the street. He was finishing up a greasy doublemeatdoublecheese and trying to come up with some kind of believable lies to tell Tony. He still had his Marriott room key, so getting into the hotel would be no trouble.
They'd talk about old times mostly. At least, that was what he hoped. His life before drawing the black queen was a hopeless blur. He didn't think about his past
much, and considered the future only slightly more. Mostly he thought about death. Not because he liked it, but it was hard not to. Death put everything else into insignificant perspective. If all the politicians and lawyers and corporate hotshots understood the reaper the way he did, they'd never bother to get out of bed in the morning.
Spector picked up the phone, an old beige rotary model, and dialed the Marriott. After about twenty rings there was an answer. "Marriott Marquis." The voice was curt and whiny.
Probably the little jerkoff who'd been at the desk when he checked in.
"Yes. Any messages for 1031?"
They put him on hold without so much as a "one moment" or "let me check." Spector drummed his fingertips on his thigh. They were probably making him wait on purpose.
Worse, they might have figured out what happened to Baird and were tracing the call. That would take at least a minute or two. He'd wait a few more seconds.
"Yes. Mr. Calderone says to meet him in the lobby at six this evening." Click.
"Fuck you, too," Spector said, rapping the mouthpiece on the edge of the nightstand. He tossed the receiver into the cradle and headed for the bathroom. Why was it ritzy hotels hired assholes? The little clerk was moving up the list. His chances of living out the week were even slimmer than Hartmann's.
3:00 r. M.
The CNN glass press booth hung like a vision of heaven at the top of the center. Tachyon labored wearily up the steps. Mentally preparing for another round of talks with journalists.
A strata of society that shared a good many traits with carrion birds, he decided bitterly. Must have a story. The more tragic, horrifying, terrifying the better. Hartmann's star, so bright at the beginning of this long campaign trail, seems to be sadly dimming in the white-hot fires of this Democratic convention. The unctuous commentator mouthing the silly metaphor. But it seemed to be becoming a self-fulfilling prophesy.
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